


Make Me Unreal

by AmunetMana



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: "Really messed up parental shit with Pitch idek I should never have started writing this", Jack doesn't know what he's being dragged into, Pitch is loopy, a common theme in my stories, and fairly canon, i don't know what will, if that doesn't make you curious, the working title for this is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:39:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmunetMana/pseuds/AmunetMana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pitch has always been seeking something out. Something - someone he lost a long time ago.</p><p>And now, he's finally found them in one Jack Frost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGoldenAppleofAsgard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenAppleofAsgard/gifts).



> Dedicated to Luna because although the original idea is not her fault, the fact it made it onto this website is. |D

Loneliness was, and always had been, the dominating aspect of Pitch’s life. More than fear, more than nightmares, he found himself always alone. Nightmare sand and Fearlings did not count; they had little interest in him beyond his manipulation of the basic materials from which they were formed. It sounded like they should be very connected to him, but no. There was constant detachment, a total lack of anything that could even vaguely resemble empathy or loyalty. The way in which the nightmares had turned on him in the end proved that.

 

Dragging him into his hole, back into isolation.

 

Isolation was what had ruined him from the beginning. He remembered – there were echoes…he remembered a locket. And a figure within it. Someone important, someone he couldn’t be without. He’d been searching for her ever since. He didn’t know what form she would take, but he knew, _instinctively_ he knew, that she would return to him, with her wild hair and her grass-stained feet, hurling herself into his arms, and clinging like she would never let go again.

 

The Lunanoff Prince had been his first try, but that one he had dismissed quickly. He had grown up too fast, become too serious in his role as a Tsar. Pitch had lost interest swiftly, and with minimal regrets. Nightlight had been his next attempt, far more wild and carefree than the Tsar. Yet even so, he was far too similar to the boy-turned-man he had once guarded.

 

Katherine.

 

Oh, how he remembered Katherine. She had come so close. So, so close. Everything had seemed right; just as Pitch had lost his child, so she had lost her parents, but even she had disappointed in the end.

 

His mind danced around his final attempt at making contact. It was raw, it was hard, and he’d been in such a desperate way when he had appealed to the spirit that he couldn’t even remember his true purpose for seeking out his loyalty.

 

Jack Frost. The name that tasted like lemon, ascorbic and tart. He had been so – so close. Right down to the bare feet, and the wildness of his eyes – although it was all so wrong, like an inverse of colours _black not white, gold not blue_ but Pitch had seen beyond that. Even with his purpose so lost to him along with the loss of his power, he had still known, still seen it in Jack. Jack did not know. If he had, he never would have rejected Pitch. But Pitch knew, with every growing certainty, that he could fix that. Something had been reborn, _someone_ , someone small, and precious even through the darkness, and they had been reborn into Jack.

 

He was moving through the darkness before the thought could even take real root in his mind. It was, after all, so much more than a mere _idea_ , it was a basic need, a pull from deep in his soul that called out for Jack, called out for what Jack had once been, _what he must be again what Pitch would make him be again –_

 

He tasted sunlight on snow. A field of pure, crisp snow, its maker hovering delicately above it, as though unable to place his feet on the ground and ruin the sparkling perfection around him. He wasn’t moving; probably waiting for someone else to come and begin to play. _Memories flickered across Pitch’s mind, of a child that had loved the snow too, but so different to the love of summer. Summer was for tumbling in the dirt, for strewn flowers woven into crowns and anklets and belts, for high laughter and rosy cheeks._

 

He had never seen Jack in the summer. Perhaps that was why it had taken so long to find him. The Man in the Moon had turned Jack into a frozen thing – to hide him, no doubt, from Pitch. The Man in the Moon had attempted to conceal the boy, to mislead Pitch, to mislead _Jack_. Suddenly, Jack’s refusal in Antarctica made sense. Why the logic, the perfection of cold and dark had not worked, it was because all that the Man in the Moon had _forced_ onto Jack was a lie, had taken him from who he truly was.

 

Pitch slid up behind Jack; the length of his body pressing into the shadows of branches cast across snow, until he was within Jack’s shadow itself, rising up behind him. Jack hadn’t seen or felt his presence. _She’d never been able to tell when he was sneaking up on her._

 

And then, unlike before, it was suddenly easy. A hand around Jack’s mouth, black sand coiling its way around Pitch’s fingers and into the cavern stretched wide as the boy tried to scream, and Jack went limp in Pitch’s arms. He was right. Pitch was right; this was what he needed. It was what they both needed, to be together again after far too long apart. ‘ _Just him,’_ he thought as he sunk back into the shadows with his prize, ‘ _and his precious child.’_


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack finds himself in Pitch' Lair, but he has no idea what the Bogeyman's plan is this time.

When Jack awoke it felt akin to dragging his body and mind through thick treacle. He scrunched his eyes shut, feeling the heavy pounding of his head, and groaning at the sensation. His head slowly began to clear itself as consciousness seeped further into his brain, pushing back the heaviness until it was only a dull thud, not a sticky, relentless pounding. His body, however, did not regain any such freedom of movement. Panic finally registered in his mind as his fingers brushed against cool metal, the feel and texture so very different to the marked wood of his staff that he found himself startled into the waking world.

 

“You’re awake,” came a voice, _a familiar voice, but not good familiar, not a voice Jack wanted to hear –_ and he twisted his head, wincing as it pressed against something hard, and came to face Pitch.

 

The Bogeyman was stood a way away from Jack, an uncomfortably comfortable difference, a paradoxical show of giving Jack his space that only made him feel all the more crowded.

 

“Pitch…?” came the croak of Jack’s voice, as though he hadn’t used it in an age. “What have you done…why can’t I move?”

 

To Jack’s frustration and simmering panic, Pitch just chuckled, a warm, easy sound, as if Jack had just reminded him of an old family joke. As though Pitch could have something like family, Jack scoffed within the privacy of his own mind.

 

“Ahh, you always did have trouble when you first woke up in the mornings,” Pitch said fondly, regarding Jack with an expression full of reminiscence. “It was always the only calm moment of the day. As soon as you had woken up, off you went! Nothing could stop you until it grew late, and you’d collapse wherever you stood. I’d have to come and find you, and carry you back to bed.” He laughed softly again, and Jack wondered if Pitch had finally lost what was left of his mind.

 

He did however find, with a little more effort, he was able to move, pushing himself up until he was in a sitting position, and he was finally able to get a good look at himself. It was no wonder he’d had trouble moving. His entire body was swamped in layers upon layers of creamy coloured fabric, heavy with quality and golden embroidery, spelling out words in a mysterious curving array of letters that Jack couldn’t place. The neckline of the dress was a low swooping curve that exposed the top of his shoulders, and the chest was an array of shimmering sashes and decoration.

 

And, in his hands the source of the metallic sensation, a glimmering sword. His hand was wrapped tightly around the hilt, and it looked as though he had been arranged, for lack of a better word, lying down with the sword resting over his body.

 

It was weird.

 

Seriously weird, even for Pitch’s standards.

 

“Look, Pitch, I have no idea what’s going on,” Jack began tiredly, wondering why it was he felt like he couldn’t summon any more strength to his body or mind, “but can I just – I don’t care what weird plans you have, can I just have my clothes back, my staff, anything? I need to go, I need to get ba –  ”

 

“You’re not going anywhere,” Pitch cut across him smoothly and Jack stopped, seeing for the first time the truly unbalanced look in Pitch’s eyes.

 

“What do you mean?” Jack demanded, the anger bubbling in his chest beginning to restore some of his energy to him, “You have to let me go, you can’t keep me here forever!” The Guardians would notice he was gone. They’d come looking for him, of course they would, and Pitch would be sorry then.

 

Not that any of that seemed to even occur to Pitch.

 

“I told you, didn’t I?” Pitch said softly, keeping a respectful distance from Jack, his hands clasped together. Although Jack wondered if the distance was only because he’d been stupid enough to leave Jack with a sword, which his fingers where clasped around in a white-knuckle show of strength.

 

“Tell me what?” the frost spirit snapped, struggling to sit up further, the heavy weight of fabric dragging down his body in a way clothing had never done before.

 

“That I knew what it was like to long for a family,” Pitch reminded him, his tone earnest. His hands unclasped, and he reached towards Jack now, slowly, carefully. “ _We_ can be a family, Jack,” he continued, and Jack tried to back up, to escape to hands closing in on him, “there were others, you know, that I offered this to, but they were wrong. I see that now, Jack. It had to be you. It’s always been you.”

 

Jack’s final attempt at protecting himself was to wrap his fingers firmly around the hilt of the sword, to draw it forward and attack Pitch. But even as the thought crossed his mind he was filled with doubt and fear. Using frost and snow was one thing; they were natural, and a part of him. But to use a sword, a physical weapon that could cause bodily harm with one swing? It made jack’s muscles tense up and his fingers freeze, so tight he dug crescent shapes into his palms.

 

That time was all Pitch needed to finish reaching out to Jack, to cup cool cheeks between grey fingers and pull Jack forward against his chest. A hug. It was a hug, pure and simple. A basic embrace, yet it disarmed Jack and made him go limp, more than anything else Pitch might have done at that moment to attack him.

 

“It’s been so long,” Pitch was mumbling above his head, and Jack’s ears strained to pick up the words, “Been thousands of years since I’ve been able to hold you like this, my darling child.”

 

It was like some kind of script. Some kind of really weird, twisted script that Pitch didn’t know how to navigate, and the result was the words crawling across Jack’s skin like the legs of insects he couldn’t shake from his body.

 

“What are you doing, you senile – “ Jack struggled against the embrace, the long heavy sleeves of the dress weighing his arms down and restricting his movements. As he tugged and pulled, however, heavy hands suddenly began to move, and Jack felt bile rise in his throat as Pitch’s long fingers carded through his hair, gently, softly, _and this, this was practised, this was not clumsy or uncoordinated he’d done this before wherewhyhow had he done this before –_

 

Pitch had never been, in Jack’s mind, kind. Even in Antarctica, with pleas on his lips and earnest hope in his eyes, Pitch had never been kind, never been gentle. Jack could not imagine anything between them that was not rage and anger at the world, caustic edges and cold so cold it burned as they destroyed everything in sight simply because they could, be cause it had not loved them.

 

That would be preferable.

 

Preferable to this…this _farce_.

 

He struggled against Pitch’s hold, but the hand in his hair and the one moving in soothing motions across his back made the sickness rise, weighing his body down, made him want to curl in on himself. It truly was a like a play, one he hadn’t seen the script to, and could only begin to fathom his role in. Pitch knew the words, knew the motions as he continued the smooth, heavy strokes, catching on the metal in Jack’s hair, causing the silver flowers to chime. Jack shuddered at the sound; shuddered beneath Pitch’s grip. Pitch didn’t respond to his struggles, just continued to stroke at Jack’s hair, at his face, until Jack finally caved beneath the touch, unable to save himself.

 

Rage was preferable.

 

Preferable to the kindness that made him feel like he was drowning all over again.

 

“Let – let me go,” Jack whispered into the tender hold, a shudder passing through his entire body. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go, let me go, let me _go – ”_

 

“You don’t have to worry about a thing now,” Pitch interrupted Jack’s growing panic with a soothing murmur as he finally left Jack’s side, approaching the door as he prepared to leave, “Your father is here with you now. And I _promise_ you, I _swear_ that I will not allow them to take you from me again, precious one.”

 

Jack went rigid at his words, rage burning cold beneath his skin.

 

“You are _not_ my father,” Jack growled ruthlessly, not faltering even at the undisguised flash of hurt that spread across Pitch’s face. It took seconds, maybe even minutes for Pitch to visibly pull himself together. Jack kept his eyes firmly fixed on Pitch’s face, watching every flicker of emotion that passed across it.

 

“That’s…it’s been a long time. Of course you would be confused, at first.” Pitch suddenly began mumbling, and Jack strained to hear the words, although in some ways he wished he hadn’t listened, since all they did was to fill him with sickly horror. Especially when Pitch looked up at him, smile _reassuring_ of all things, the emotion genuine and understanding. “Oh course it’s difficult for you to call me father straight away,” he said soothingly, as though it was _Jack_ who had gone crazy and panicky over not calling Pitch his father, “You need time. We both do, this will be very different for the both of us but we will get through it together. As we always have.” And, with that, Pitch swept forward. Jack couldn’t react fast enough as heavy hands settled on his shoulders, and a dry kiss brushed against his forehead. Then suddenly Pitch was gone, meaning Jack’s weighed-down swipes and attacks missed completely. Pitch re-materialised by the door, looking back towards Jack. “You must be tired. I will leave you to sleep, and collect you in the morning.” He smiled faintly, before closing the door behind him.

 

“No, Pitch – _Get back here Pitch! Let me out!_ ” Jack screamed at the door. He pulled at the heavy dress, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed with all the intention of walking over to the door and escaping, but the black floor suddenly roiled beneath his feet, and Jack pulled his legs back onto the bed in a flash.

 

Nightmare sand. Coiling and shifting all across the floor was a thick, writhing mass of nightmare sand. Jack swallowed thickly. No staff, no wind, clothed in a dress that weighed him down no matter what mode of transport he took, and a floor coated with nightmare sand. Pitch had trapped him well. Jack pressed his back up against the headboard of the bed, as close as he could get, pulling his legs up to his chest.

 

Ok. That was – ok. He was stuck. Jack’s breathing hitched, threatening to turn into hyperventilation at any moment. His hands clutched tighter around the sword’s hilt, desperate for any kind of sense of familiarity, but the cool metal betrayed that yet again. He sunk down into the bed, still curled up, but twisted onto his side, so his eyes were fixed on the door. He just had to wait for Pitch to come back, he decided. Just watch and wait, and demand that Pitch stop whatever crazy scheme he had in place.

 

His eyelids drooped, as he tried to keep them focused on the door. He just…needed…he fingers slackened around the sword, his limbs loosening. Black sand whispered a tuneless melody into his ears.

 

He just…

 

Needed…

_Pitch…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? /).(\


End file.
